


Five times Dean and Cas were trapped in an AU and one time they weren’t

by whichstiel



Series: Season 15 Codas [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universes, Atomic Monsters, Episode Tag, Episode: s15e04 Atomic Monsters, First Kiss, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Parallel Universes, chuck's powers, episode coda, spn 15x04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 15:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21376618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: The thing about gods - any god, not just G-O-D - is that they’re steeped in magic. It’s in every touch of their finger. Every stroke of the key. Chuck’s no different. He may have written his own story on his blog-o-the-lord, but as soon as he touched Becky’s computer his magic got to work.Like every writer, Becky’s computer was full of incomplete drafts. Works in progress languished sorrowfully, incomplete and abandoned. But hit them with the right spark of magic? Well, they come alive.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Season 15 Codas [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514042
Comments: 30
Kudos: 142





	Five times Dean and Cas were trapped in an AU and one time they weren’t

The thing about gods - any god, not just G-O-D - is that they’re steeped in magic. It’s in every touch of their finger. Every stroke of the key. Chuck’s no different. He may have written his own story on his blog-o-the-lord, but as soon as he touches Becky’s computer his magic gets to work. 

Like every writer, Becky’s computer is full of incomplete drafts. Works in progress languish sorrowfully, incomplete and abandoned. But hit them with the right spark of magic? Well, they come alive. 

** ONE **

Instead of a bell, seashells clatter and clunk as the door opens. It’s a natural sound, and it puts Dean at ease to see no trace of silver bells or iron hinges in the place. A young brunette smiles pleasantly at them. “Welcome to Heavenly Smiles,” she says. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, keeping Jack a little behind him while he continues to scope out the place. “For my son Jack. Jack Kline? That’s spelled K-L-I-“

“Ah yes, Jack!” the woman smiles a greeting at the boy still half hidden behind Dean. “Welcome.” She pulls out a clipboard and attaches a couple pieces of paper to it, handing it across the counter to Dean. “Since it’s your first visit, we just need you to fill out some paperwork.”

“Paperwork?” He digs in his pocket. “I’ll get you my insurance info.”

“That, yes. But also a medical history,” she says. “the origin of his extra-human ability. You know, are his extra-human abilities born or made? That sort of thing?”

“Does that make a difference?” Jack asks with a note of anxiety.

“It can sometimes affect how teeth grow in, yes. Doctor Novak will adjust your orthodontia to account for whether your teeth have developed as a human or through a straight monster line.  Fangs can be finicky!” she says brightly. 

Dean settles in the small waiting room with Jack. The walls have posters of fanged faces with perfect smiles. One of them says “Fang you for your business” which is just the worst sort of pun. Dean thinks he should walk out on principle alone. Instead, he finishes the paperwork and then hangs onto the clipboard. 

A handful of minutes later, the orthodontist comes out and Dean’s life is changed forever. He’s…gorgeous. Doctor Novak is tall, with a shock of dark brown hair and blue eyes that Dean would happily drown in. When he smiles at them and asks for “Jack? Jack Kline?” with an intense, low voice, Dean thinks he’s died and gone to Heaven.

Suddenly nervous for entirely different reasons, Dean leads Jack back to the orthodontist’s office. 

The doctor leafs through Dean’s paperwork as they walk. “So Jack, I see Doctor Fitzgerald referred you? He’s concerned that your tertiary incisors are coming in too crowded?”

“Um,” Jack says. 

“Yeah,” Dean fills in. “He said something about that causing problems when he wolfs out.”

Doctor Novak chuckles. “It certainly can. Imagine the discomfort of suddenly having extra teeth in your mouth when you haven’t the room for them.” He guides Jack to a plush baby blue chair and waits until Jack gets settled. While Jack reclines and opens his mouth, Doctor Novak talks to Dean. 

“So I see Jack’s a born werewolf,” he says mildly. “That actually makes it easier. His jaw developed with the transformation, so it’ll probably be just a year of these puppies and he’ll be on a great track to adulthood.”

“Oh,” Dean says, relieved for both Jack’s sake and his bank account. “That’s great.”

Doctor Novak smiles and - _jesus_ \- it is really not fair how gorgeous he is. “You’re doing a good thing, bringing him in for help.”

“I’m just glad you’re around.” Dean adopted Jack after his parents were killed by a couple bloodthirsty hunters, and he often feels like he is fumbling in the dark. “How’d you come to specialize in extra-humans, anyway?”

“I’m an angel,” Doctor Novak says as though there is nothing surprising about that.

“An—“ Dean goggles at him, awe battling with the sinking realization that Doctor Novak is way out of his league.

"Angel." Doctor Novak winks. “And I heard that. Sorry. I’m new to Earth and I’m still trying to filter all that out. Human thoughts?” He punctuates it with an adorably awkward smile, then busies himself with examining Jack for a few minutes. Dean’s spared from self-immolating in embarrassment when Castiel finally follows that up with, “I’m not, you know.”

“Not what?”

Doctor Novak looks up at Dean and smiles. “Not out of your league,” he says. “Just so you know.”

“Oh!” Dean returns the grin and then fires off a more rakish wink. “Awesome.”

** TWO **

“So how hot are _his_ buns?” Balthazar snickers. When Castiel elbows him sharply he protests. “What? He’s a baker. It’s funny.”

Castiel is used to the absolute mortification of traveling anywhere with his brother, so he ignores his protestations. Although the truthful answer is _very hot._ The baker, a gorgeous green-eyed wall of a man, flirts outrageously with everyone and gets away with it. Dean has probably attracted half his business just from thirsty customers daydreaming about testing his _rise_. Castiel groans. _Great. Now I’m doing it too._

When it’s their turn at the counter, Dean leans forward with an engaging smile. His look rakes Castiel from waist to brow. “What can I get you, sunshine?”

“Ah. Um. I’d like— Ah…” And there, Castiel’s coherency is once again ruined.

Balthazar elbows his way forward. “He’d like your number,” he says boisterously. 

Before Castiel can die of shame, Dean’s written something on a scrap of receipt and pushed it across the counter. It’s a phone number.

When Dean meets his eye, Castiel is astonished to see a shadow of nerves there. “If you really did,” he says hurriedly. “Otherwise, don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, I do.” Castiel recovers himself enough to snatch up the paper and pocket it. “I really do.” 

Dean’s smile is gentle. “Awesome. Well. Anything else I can get for you?”

Balthazar rattles off a list, but Castiel finds the only sustenance he needs is seeing that pleased flush on Dean’s face - because of _him. _

** THREE **

“I want to paint you.” The figure model whispers this to Castiel and somehow it seems to only reach his ears. His bright, red ears. _Oh my god. _He glances around quickly. Nobody seems to be reacting. 

Castiel had signed up for this figure drawing class as a way to de-stress, and a way to get out of the house. It is far too easy to stay inside all day, hunkered in front of his computer and punching out his latest novel. But he’s not sure today’s class is furthering that goal. 

“Clothes optional,” the figure model continues. 

Castiel tries to swallow and chokes on nothing. 

“I’m Dean,” the model says, utterly self-assured. 

“Cas,” Castiel mumbles. 

“Whatdya do, Cas?” Dean asks.

Castiel wrinkles his nose. “For fun?” he whispers.

“Painting, I assume,” Dean says with amusement. “Work?”

“Writer.”

“A writer?” Dean asks with clear delight. “No shit, I write poetry.”

Castiel meets his eyes directly for the first time. Dean looks serious and utterly pleased at this development. “You do?” 

“Oh yeah. And I write a monthly column in Autumn Review.” 

“You _do?_” Castiel asks, his interest firmly cemented now. He smiles long and slow. “I love that magazine.” _Dean…Dean… Is there a contributor who goes by that name? Does he use a pen name? _And then his mind hits on it. “Dean Winchester?”

“The one and only.” A pleased flush travels enticingly down Dean’s chest and Castiel tries very hard not to follow it. 

“Yes,” Castiel says.

“Yes?” Dean asks. 

Castiel meets his eye directly. “Yes. You can paint me,” he confirms. 

It’s Dean’s turn to look flustered.

** FOUR **

Dean laughs right in Castiel Novak’s face the first time they meet. Castiel stands on his front porch with a slick brochure and a smile which barely wavers in the face of Dean’s cruel amusement. 

“A…ghost lives here. And you want to come in and catch it?” Dean wheezes. And, okay, maybe he’s laughing a little too hard. He has been sleeping terribly ever since he moved here (old houses are loud). So a little sleep deprivation can lead to some outright hysterical laughter. 

“That’s right,” Castiel Novak, ghost hunter, affirms. “Your brother called me.”

Dean’s laughter turns to a swear. “Of all the— I’m gonna kill him.”

“I think he’s worried about the same happening to you. Um,” Castiel follows up. “I mean, he’s worried you’ll get killed. By the ghost.” 

And Dean’s back to amused. “Okay,” he decides in an instant. “Fine. Sure. Come on in. Hunt that ghost down.” He waggles his fingers and makes a low, spooky groan. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says with dignity, and pushes his way inside. Honestly, he’s had worse introductions than this. 

Dean shows Castiel around his house with a half proud, half baiting attitude. He opens closets and calls “Heeeeere ghosty ghosty ghosty!” and hollers down the basement steps before heading down. 

Castiel senses the ghost in the basement, and is suddenly grateful for Dean’s loud, overbearing behavior. Because this ghost does feel dark to him. Seething. He takes a deep breath, slow and calming. “You should go upstairs,” he says, unholstering the ray gun from his backpack. “This could get messy.” 

“Oh, no,” Dean shakes his head emphatically. “You think I’m leaving a stranger alone in any room of my house, you’ve got another think coming. I’m staying right here.” 

Which is how, thirty minutes and a potentially deadly struggle later, Castiel finds himself pinned to the basement floor by one Dean Winchester, ex-disbeliever. Ectoplasm soaks into the back of his shirt and the containment box smokes from its recent acquisition. 

“Holy shit,” Dean says, staring at the smoking box. “Ghosts are real.” 

Castiel laughs right in Dean’s face. His laughter fades as he stares up at Dean, however. There’s a hunger there, born of near-death experiences and shared trauma. Castiel shifts experimentally under Dean. Suggestively. 

Dean reaches up and lays a palm along Castiel’s jaw. Slight pressure moves Castiel's chin just…so…

“Holy shit,” Dean murmurs, and he leans down for a kiss.

** FIVE **

“Fuck me,” Dean mutters as three dogs he has on leashes seem to tumble over each other like acrobats, turning themselves into a tangled mess of leash and limb. He anchors the other two dogs by wrapping their leashes around his elbow, and then bends to detangle the three smaller dogs. They yap at him, at each other, at every single goddamn passerby. “Sam, get a better job. A real job. For fuck’s sake.”

Sam, uptown and closed away in their shared apartment, is probably hacking up whatever lung he has left right now. Dean had forbidden him from from working today. Sam had only relented and agreed to stay home when Dean agreed to cover his dog walking service for him. “Every bit of money counts,” Sam had hacked. “I can’t—“ _cough cough _“Lose this—“ _cough cough. _Sam is as infuriatingly correct as always. School’s expensive and they need all the income they can scrape up. 

So Dean’s out here, walking five dogs at once and feeling like the biggest dumbass. He approaches the park. A terrifying gauntlet of children and poorly behaved dogs lies between him and lunch. 

Almost. Done.

And then the worst happens. Somehow one of the dogs oozes its way out of its collar. Before Dean knows it, the dumb dog is sprinting away across the green, joyfully barking at the top of its stupid lungs. 

Awesome. 

The other dogs want to join in on the fun, and Dean lets them, holding tight to their leashes and racing after them. He can’t lose this dog. Sammy’ll lose his job. He’ll have to take something even more annoying instead, or with worse hours that interfere with his classes and—

Dean closes in the dog, focusing only on the wriggly overjoyed asshole when it leaps. It leaps and like a slow motion movie, Dean watches it barrel right into one of those living statues that perform all over the park. 

The guy - because it is a guy, right? - jumps with a choked shout. He’s dressed as a stone angel, tall and imposing with wings that stretch over his head and all the way down to his feet. He must fall over his own wings because he topples off that plinth like a felled tree. Unfortunately for the angel, but fortunately for Dean, the wayward dog starts licking his face.

By the time Dean catches up with his pack of dogs, the man’s faux-stone costume makeup is half removed. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dean gasps, lunging for the dog and catching a leg. He struggles to loop the collar back over the dog’s head but it’s a lot like trying to slip a diamond ring on a thrashing eel. The dog snaps at the collar and all appears hopeless when the angel wraps his arms around the dog. 

“Here,” he says in an amused tone. “I’ve got the dog. You work on that collar.” 

Dean loops the other dogs’ leashes over, around, and through his limbs and gratefully kneels next to the angel. “Thanks,” he says with his breath evening out. “You seriously just saved me.

“You’re welcome,” the angel says. “I wouldn’t fall for just anyone, of course.”

Dean laughs, then he meets the angel’s gaze after reattaching the now leashed dog to his person. The guy’s staring at him with these intense blue eyes. He should look ridiculous, with his face half unpainted and one wing leaning drunkenly from where it cracked when the angel fell. But he looks amazing instead. _Hot._

“I’m still sorry it happened, but I’m glad we met,” Dean says, testing the waters. 

He’s rewarded with a glorious grin. “You should buy me lunch to make up for it,” the man says. He sticks out his hand. “I’m Cas.”

“Dean.” Returning the handshake, Dean looks down at the dogs. “I gotta take care of these hounds from hell. Let’s say an hour and a half? Rubio’s?”

“Perfect,” Cas says. 

Dean helps him up and leaves the man to clean up his lightly destroyed sidewalk props so he can get the dogs returned to their homes. As he leaves the park to walk the handful of blocks to the first stop he reflects on his lunch date.

“Fuck yes,” Dean says with a growing grin. “I got a date with an angel."

** * * * **

Now the metaphysical question here, of course, is whether all of these worlds are real. Are _any_ of these real? Did Becky’s incomplete drafts become universes numbered 8 quadrillion-and-one through four? Or are they fleeting, like a djinn’s dream? For that matter, is anything _real_? Are we anything but particles clinging together for a short time before melting back into the cosmos? 

Does the agony thudding inside Dean Winchester’s heart stem from something he can chart? He’s a machine of meat and bones powered by spirit. He lives on a vast world in a vast solar system in a vast galaxy in a vast universe. And the love of his long, immortal life also happens, rather conveniently, to be a machine of meat and bones powered by spirit. 

We could debate about which love we've read today is real and even whether love is real at all. We could debate it, but the funny thing about love is that it happens despite our inattention or attention. 

In a motel in a dreary slice of Missouri, Dean and Castiel reunite in their own world. It’s not love at first sight. It’s not instant attraction. It’s old and simmering and like a finely spiced stew, it’s ready to nourish them at last. 

** SIX **

When Castiel sees the Impala parked in the lot of his motel, he nearly turns around and flees. There’s very little he needs from his room and his life on Earth has taught him that he can always find a replacement for possessions. He’ll just steal a car and leave town and— And—

Well. That’s a coward’s path. 

Castiel steels himself for a confrontation, and advances on the motel. He’s unsurprised to find that they’ve picked the lock to his motel room. When he turns the knob, it gives easily. Castiel lets the door swing wide. He’s at a tactical advantage like this with his back to freedom and the light shining from behind his shoulders. 

Dean and Sam look up from where they’re sitting (limbs absurdly hooked over chair backs) and blink into the glare of the sun. 

“Sam,” Castiel pointedly leads with this. “Dean.” He walks in and sets his hunting duffel on the small table. Knives, a box of bullets, and two firearms clunk and rattle in the fabric casing. 

“Cas!” Sam looks wildly relieved, like he thought Castiel was a mirage up until this very moment. Dean doesn’t say a word. Castiel tries not to be bitter about it, but that’s a losing battle. 

“What are you doing here?” _What’s wrong? What do you need me for?_ he wants to ask, but that sounds petty. 

“We were worried about you, Cas,” Sam says, like it was a foolish question. “You weren’t answering your phone and—“

“Oh. I got a new one.” Castiel doesn’t add that he ditched the old one in an attempt to burn as many bridges as possible. 

“Okay. Well, we’ll work that out later.” Sam glances at his brother, and Castiel finds himself doing the same. Dean sits low on his chair. He stares at his fingernails, picking at them. 

Castiel fights a surge of anger. “Well, I’m doing well. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get cleaned up.” He holds up his hands, exposing the viscera that still coats the underside of his wrists and seeps up his forearms. 

“Sure,” Sam says, rolling his eyes at Dean. “We’ll just…talk later, okay?”

“Of course,” long habit propels Castiel to say. He points towards the bathroom. “I’m just going to— Yeah.” He heads for the shower. 

When he comes back out, Sam’s gone. Dean’s still there though. He sits properly in the chair now, with his knees slack and his elbows balanced on his thighs. He’s clasping his hands. No— He’s wringing his hands. It’s a long, slow sliding motion of his fingers passing over and under his palms, back and forth. Something about it gives Castiel chills and his tone is therefore much kinder when he asks, “Where’s Sam?”

“Booked us a room,” Dean says quietly. He still stares at his hands. Slides them back and forth, back and forth. 

“Okay,” Castiel says, not comprehending a damn thing. 

“I was, uh, hoping to talk to you,” Dean says. “If now’s a good time?”

Castiel casts around the room and throws up his hands as if to say, _Well, get on with it._

The room is utterly silent. It’s so quiet, Castiel thinks he can hear the TV from three doors down. They’re watching a nature documentary about bears. It’s silent for so long that Castiel starts to listen to it. _Black bears emerge from their den in…_

_“_I fucked up.” Dean’s admission is so soft. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

Castiel’s heartbeat speeds up. “What do you mean, you ‘fucked up?’” That could mean anything from I ate a bad burrito to I brought about the apocalypse again. 

Dean finally looks up and he does look wrecked. His face is lined and sorrowful and Castiel suddenly thinks that somebody must be dying. _Sam_ must be dying. He clenches his fist and wishes he could heal a damn thing right now, but there’s a jar of peanut butter and a half eaten loaf of bread in his car that says he’s next to useless on the magic scale these days. 

“After you left,” Dean says. “I blamed you.” 

It’s such an abrupt turn that Castiel can’t quite digest it. “What?”

“I blamed you for leaving. Figured if you left the moment Chuck cut the strings, you didn’t want to be there in the first place.”

“Dean,” Castiel can’t help but grit out his name and roll his eyes heavenward. “That’s absurd.”

“Yeah.” Dean tries for a smile but it slides right off his face the moment he meets Castiel’s eyes. “I get that now. Cas, I shoulda… I shoulda chased after you, I don’t know. I was just so angry - at everything - for so long.” He stops wringing his hands at last and plants them on his knees. “I was just out to destroy what I could, I guess. Even if—“

Castiel sighs. He doesn’t think he should forgive Dean for making him see the truth about his value to the Winchesters, but he can feel the urge to let bygones pass growing. “I forgive you,” Castiel says, hoping to cut off the groveling before Dean shifts to false platitudes. “Now did you need something from me or—?”

Dean laughs bitterly. “Did I need something from you? God, Cas, I—“ He stops, apparently arrested by something he sees in Castiel’s face. “I need you, Cas.” His voice is careful. Soft. 

“For what?” Castiel can’t help but allow his (strictly professional) curiosity to rise to the surface. 

“No, I—“ Dean stands, hesitates, then takes a few steps towards Castiel, rounding the bed. “I need _you,_ Cas. I need you as part of my life. When you lived in the bunker? God, it was the happiest I’ve ever been. Even when things were shitty. Waking up and just having you there? Going to sleep and having you there? It was the best feeling in the world.”

While he spoke he approached Castiel slowly. Now, Castiel takes a step back and it stops Dean in his tracks. Fear flashes across his features but over what, Castiel can’t fathom. “I don’t expect you to come back.” Dean waves a hand at the room. “You got your own life now, I get it.” Castiel is tempted to correct him and say that this is not “a life,” but Dean continues. “But I hope you’ll come home.”

“To the bunker?” Castiel asks, because he’s been having dreams of being trapped underground with Dean sniping at him and calling him a failure. The thought of the bunker leaves him feeling a bit raw. 

“Sure, yeah. Or— Or…I could hunt with you?"

“Dean. Is everything okay with Sam?”

“Yeah,” Dean looks confused, and then scared. “Why? Do you know something?”

“No, I—“ Castiel growls in frustration. “So. Sam’s fine. You’re fine. The world’s fine?” Dean nods. “But you want me to come back?”

“Yes?”

“But what’s my purpose there?” Castiel demands. “I’m powerless right now. I’m _sleeping_, Dean.” The flinch he gets from Dean is oddly satisfying. 

“There’s no ‘purpose,’” Dean says, actually using air quotes. “Nothing except.” He sucks in a deep breath. Lets it out. “The thing is, a hunter’s life is short. Especially now that I don’t have Chuck writing us alive again every other year. And when you left, after the anger burned away, I only had one thing.”

“And what is that?” Castiel asks, exhausted with frustration. 

“I love you, Cas. I’ve loved you for years. And sometimes I think maybe you might feel the same. And if you do, maybe we belong together and—“

Castiel’s jaw drops. “What?”

Dean searches his face and must see something that emboldens him, because he closes the gap between them with one stride. Ever so carefully he lifts a hand to stroke Castiel’s stubbled cheek. 

“I thought I was..,” Castiel says barely above a whisper. “I was a weapon for you.”

“No,” Dean says with a bitter twist of a smile. “Maybe at first, but not for long. And then it was all I could do to try to get you to stay in my life. When you left it broke me.”

“I had to leave,” Castiel says, his throat closely in traitorously. 

“I know you did.” Dean’s thumb soothes over Castiel’s jaw, over and over. “I was a dumbass.”

Castiel stares at Dean for a long moment. “You need me,” he says and Dean nods. “You— You love me?” he says and Dean looks away and then, with visible effort, back up to meet Castiel’s gaze. 

“I love you,” Dean confirms. “And I’m sorry for ever making you feel—“

But his apology is cut off. Castiel is tired. He’s tired of the shit roulette life of a lone hunter. He’s tired of eating cold peanut butter and jelly and beans from cans with the lids still attached. He’s tired of sleeping, and the nightmares it brings. He’s tired of sleeping _alone_. Most of all, he’s tired of waiting. Castiel kisses Dean and it’s incredibly gratifying to hear Dean’s muffled surprise melt into a low moan of pleasure as they kiss…and kiss…and kiss. 

There’s a lot to talk about, and a lot to atone for, but for now lips and hands and bodies go a long way toward easing forgiveness. After that comes acceptance, Castiel knows. Maybe Dean’s love confession doesn’t feel real just yet, but his ardent embrace goes a long way towards righting old wrongs. 

Castiel pulls Dean closer and lets his hands rove. Their story is long and fraught, but every story takes a turn. Any story can find a happy ending. Even his. Even theirs. 

Especially _their_ story. 

They kiss, and the story turns. 

**Author's Note:**

> _Continues to laugh at “Fang you for your business”_
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whichstiel) and [Tumblr](http://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) @ whichstiel. You may also like the Supernatural recap and gif blog I co-write/curate, [Shirtless Sammy](https://shirtlesssammy.tumblr.com/).


End file.
